Ersatz Promises
by Susanne Barringer
Summary: Co-written with Suzanne Schramm. Mytharc, Angst. // Ersatz--An artificial and usually inferior substitute.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Ersatz Promises  
AUTHORS: Susanne Barringer and Suzanne Schramm  
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net; sister_suze@yahoo.com  
ARCHIVE: Sent to Gossamer directly. Anywhere else, please drop us a line. Revisions have been made to earlier posted chapters, so please use this newer draft. The full story as a single file is available at http://www.geocities.com/s_barringer/ersatz.html or http://alanna.net/sue/ep.txt   
CATEGORY: XA  
KEYWORDS: Mytharc  
SPOILERS: Up to Emily  
RATING: R for heavy angst and adult subject matter  
SUMMARY: Ersatz - an artificial and usually inferior substitute or imitation.  
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox. No infringement intended.  
  
Thank you to Kris P. and Sue P. (no relation) for beta reading, not just the final copy but many of the chapters when this was a WIP. Your enthusiasm was much appreciated.  
  
**CONTENT WARNING: Please note that this story contains subject matter that some people may find disturbing. We can't elaborate without giving away plot points. Please read responsibly. :)  
  
NOTE: This story occurs sometime during the sixth season. This is NOT a Post-Requiem story. We started this well over a year before that episode aired. Similarities are purely coincidental and really pissed us off (Yeah, thanks Chris Carter for ruining our version of babyfic!). More authors' notes at end.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Ersatz Promises  
by Susanne Barringer and Suzanne Schramm  
  
  
CHAPTER 1  
  
  
Mulder is missing, at least officially. Once again, he's run off to chase a shallow lead in an unknown direction, leaving me to follow the evidence. I have no idea where he's gone, but for once in our partnership, I do know why - exactly why - and I know what he is looking for. As if to remind me, the child inside me moves suddenly, fluttering in my womb. I try not to weep with the pleasure of it. I cannot allow myself to love it, at least not until we find out what it is.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
"I'm pregnant."  
  
Mulder's face doesn't change, not even the slightest bit. The shock is so great it seems to have almost no effect on him. Only his eyes show his reaction, clouding over in concern and doubt.  
  
"Scully," his voice catches on my name. He is not as stoic as he appears. "You can't... I mean, I thought you weren't able to..."  
  
"I'm not." I relieve him of his discomfort. I wonder if he thinks I've suddenly become delusional. I wouldn't blame him. This is the craziest thing I've ever said to him. "All those tests showed that this isn't possible, but I'm pregnant just the same."  
  
I watch his face carefully, how his lips move to form a word but then stop. He is weighing what he should say, wondering what question to ask. I toss the sonogram onto the coffee table and Mulder unlatches his eyes from mine to glance down at it. His gaze meets mine again in question, so I raise my eyebrows in consent.  
  
Mulder reaches for the picture and his hand trembles. He raises the sonogram and examines it carefully. I watch as he runs his finger like a caress over the barely perceptible gray shadow that is the fetus. I wonder if he's conscious of doing that.   
  
"This is your baby?" He looks at me in a way that breaks my heart - half enthusiastic wonder, half total confusion.  
  
"Trust me, I didn't believe it myself until I saw the sonogram. I insisted on one because I was so sure the blood test had to be wrong. I'm pregnant, Mulder. It's growing inside me as we stand here."  
  
Mulder tears his gaze away from the sonogram and I see the amazement glistening in his eyes. "Scully," he whispers in soft awe. My throat aches, holding back an unexpected sob. God, why does he have to be quietly hopeful? It's going to be so much worse when he has to give up that tiny glimmer of happiness.  
  
His attention moves from my face to my stomach, studying it, although I haven't yet started to show. His eyes linger a long time, dwelling over the place that holds this tiny being whose reason for existence, at least for now, is a total mystery.  
  
Mulder drops the sonogram on the table and steps forward to reach out and place his hand on my belly. It is a light, gentle touch, one filled with amazement and reverence. I shiver, wishing that this bittersweet moment could last longer.   
  
"They took your ova," he finally says, his voice sounding loud after the softness of his gaze and touch. "But they didn't get all of them." He sounds sure of this theory, more sure than I ever could have been. I wait for the other half of the equation to sink in. It only takes a few seconds before I see its weight settle across his face. He snatches his hand away from where it has been hovering in front of me.  
  
"Scully, how did...? I mean, who...? I, I didn't realize you were..." Pain is written all over Mulder's face, the betrayal, the fear of secrets being kept.  
  
"I'm not," I answer, knowing exactly what he is wondering. It is a natural question, after all, at least under normal circumstances. "I'm not involved with anyone."  
  
Mulder closes his eyes. In relief? In confusion? Does he realize how much worse the truth is?   
  
"Mulder, I haven't been intimate with anyone in a long time. Years." He opens his eyes and looks at me. A frown buries its way into his brow. "This baby has no father, Mulder. I don't even know how it got there."  
  
There is a long excruciating moment of stillness. Then, Mulder reels back from me, a gasp catching in his throat as the implication hits him. His fists clench and unclench. I watch as the understanding and anger build up inside of him, stretching from the center of him out to his limbs. I have felt that, too. I have felt the indescribable rage and horror.  
  
"Are you saying they did this to you? They did it to you again?" He turns away from me and kicks the coffee table. The sonogram flutters to the floor, staring up at me, teasing me with the promise of what it isn't. Mulder stands with his back to me, his harsh breathing loud in the silence of my apartment.  
  
"Yes," I whisper, stooping over to pick up the sonogram. My fingers brush over it, but I find I can't bring myself to lift it. I kneel instead, now too exhausted to rise. "I think so, Mulder. I think they did this to me. I don't know how else to explain it."  
  
Mulder lets out a muted groan of agony and sinks to his knees, his back still turned to me. My head bows and the sonogram blurs through a veil of tears. I close my eyes, opening them again when I hear Mulder moving towards me. He reaches for the sonogram, tracing over the fetus again in a gesture that looks almost like farewell. Then he takes my hand and squeezes it and I understand that a promise has just been made.  
  
I look up and he gives me a watery smile. For just a moment, I honestly believe that everything is going to be okay.  
  
***  
  
Mulder's grief at what has happened to me, at the possibility of what my baby is, touches me deeply. He is mourning for me and for the child which is a part of me, although not necessarily my own. As for me, my reaction was less explosive, less wrenching, at least at the moment I found out. After all, I was sitting in a cold examining room when the truth was handed to me by a doctor who told me with a smile, not realizing the nightmare that his words would set into motion.  
  
I didn't believe him, of course. Not even after I went to the lab and watched them draw the blood a second time and test it right in front of me. It was so unreal, like some sort of hallucinatory image from long ago, from back when I thought its reality was possible. Dr. Zuckerman probably thought I was crazy when I insisted on an ultrasound that very day. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see what it was because there was no possible explanation for how it could be there except for the one I didn't want to face.  
  
It was too early to tell if the fetus was normal or not. Whether that was a relief or a concern I don't remember. I was so numb, so out of it, trying to wrap my mind around the reality of the child growing inside me while attempting to concoct all the possible explanations for its existence.  
  
Of course, I had to keep it all to myself. I couldn't tell poor Dr. Zuckerman that the reason I was so shocked was not because of my own infertility, which is what he presumed, but because I hadn't had sex in years. There was no biological way for me to be pregnant, even if they hadn't taken away my only hope. It was then that the reality began to sink in. They had done this to me. The horror stayed locked inside while Dr. Zuckerman gave me the obligatory lecture about eating well, avoiding alcohol, and taking vitamins, before referring me to an obstetrician. He would never understand or believe. No one would. No one except for Mulder.  
  
And yet it took two days before I could tell Mulder. I needed the time to work through the implications in my mind before I could explore them with him. In the end, though, he was the only one I could tell, the only one who could help me.   
  
  
*****  
  
  
In all our years together I have never been as aware of Scully's femininity as I have the past couple of weeks. Don't get me wrong, I knew she was a woman. Her physical attributes have certainly not gone unappreciated. But we were partners, and, more importantly, we were friends. I've never treated her any differently just because she was a she. She was simply Scully, and Scully to me encompasses more than the word "simply" implies.  
  
Now I look at her with new eyes. I can see the sweet promise in the curves of her hips and breasts. Her pregnancy isn't showing yet, but I seem to detect a new fullness beneath the loose clothes she's starting to wear. This is still her secret, but one with which she has entrusted me.  
  
According to the ultrasound she is eleven weeks pregnant. She hasn't had any missing time to explain how this happened, so we're focusing on the two days she spent in the hospital at the insistence of her oncologist. Not to mention the insistence of her partner. Hell, I was the one who took her to the hospital in the first place.  
  
It was right after we returned from a long dry tour through the Southwest. Scully had seemed tired even before we left D.C., but after six days on the road she was looking pale and drawn in a way she hadn't since the cancer. Instead of taking her home, I directed the cab to the Georgetown Medical Center.   
  
"Something's wrong," I told her when she leaned forward to redirect the cab driver. Scully looked at me, her exhausted eyes reflecting the same fear I was feeling.  
  
"I'm just tired," she whispered.  
  
"Have you had any headaches, dizziness, nausea?"  
  
She leaned back and shook her head. "No. I'm just tired."  
  
"Then I know a place you can get some rest."  
  
"Don't kid yourself, Mulder." Scully sagged against the window, her shoulders slumped in resignation. "They wake you up every hour in the hospital to check your blood pressure. You should know that."  
  
By the time we reached the hospital she was practically catatonic, a condition that didn't improve for a couple of tense and frightening days. Scully says she has only a few hazy memories of her hospitalization. She remembers me stopping by, the nurses checking on her, and Dr. Zuckerman reassuring her that it wasn't a recurrence of the cancer - only the flu compounded by exhaustion.  
  
Figuring out when the pregnancy most likely occurred was easy. Getting a look at her medical chart has become a Herculean task. She requested it as soon as we'd started to put together the timeline, but it was misfiled and no one could locate it. After nearly a week she received a call stating that her chart had been tracked down. It had been sent out for microfilming, and no amount of cajoling or threatening could get the chart back sooner. A week later an envelope arrived, but it contained only an exhaustive record of the treatments she was given before her cancer went into remission, not her most recent admission. Another visit to the hospital and she was given an apologetic shrug and told that they would look into it.  
  
Only this morning was her chart finally liberated, although it took some maneuvering from the Gunmen to get what we needed. Now she frowns as she sifts through the chart.  
  
"Mulder." She taps a pink sheet labeled 'Care Plan Enacted.' "According to this I was seen by Dr. Zuckerman and a second doctor - Dr. Jeffrey Wright. There's a mention made of both doctors filing case notes, yet only Dr. Zuckerman's are here in the chart."  
  
She flips through the papers in front and behind the care plan. Lab reports on green paper, Dr. Zuckerman's notes on a blue sheet, a discharge summary on white, but nothing for Dr. Wright. Scully begins fanning the papers at the top of the chart where a two-pronged bracket holds them in place. "Something's been removed." She picks at the top edge with her fingernail, pulling loose a thin strip of blue paper with 'Patien' printed at the torn edge.  
  
"Dr. Wright, I presume?"  
  
Scully makes no reply, her eyes wide as she stares at the small strip of paper that had held an explanation for the unexplainable.  
  
  
*****  
  
End 1/8  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

TITLE: Ersatz Promises (2/8)  
AUTHORS: Susanne Barringer and Suzanne Schramm  
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net; sister_suze@yahoo.com  
Info and disclaimers in part 1.  
  
Missing chapters available at http://www.geocities.com/s_barringer/ersatz.html  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
CHAPTER 2  
  
  
We've been driving all day without getting anywhere. It shows in the set of Scully's shoulders as she looks up at the glass and steel building that holds yet another Dr. Wright.  
  
Our visit to Dr. Zuckerman's office was fruitless since he conveniently took off to visit the mosques of India, even if it is the rainy season. There is no physician named Jeffrey Wright on staff at Georgetown Medical. Not one of the nurses who cared for Scully during her last visit remembers a Dr. Wright, nor can anyone identify the handwriting on the patient care plan that named Dr. Wright. A check on the Internet turned up 58 Jeffrey Wright, M.D.'s on the Eastern Seaboard, but only three of them were within driving distance of D.C. Neither of the first two has ever treated a Dana Scully.  
  
"You up for this?" I know I shouldn't ask, but I can't help it. I don't want to be treating Scully any differently, yet I find myself hovering nonetheless.  
  
"Let's go," she tells me, reaching to open the car door.  
  
My phone rings and Scully pauses, sitting back expectantly while I answer.  
  
"Mulder." I look over at Scully, hating the dark circles that have started to appear beneath her eyes.  
  
"We just got a big hit on Scully," Frohike tells me, decidedly unhappy at the announcement.  
  
My stomach does an icy plunge. "A hit?"  
  
"After you asked us to get Scully's medical records, we thought we'd get you what the Lombard Clinic had. They changed all the passwords after you broke into the place, so it's taken us a few days to get in."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And we found a file, created three months ago, with the same patient code they assigned Scully two years ago. We don't know yet what's in it; we're still working on that. There are other files in the same directory, all of them appear to be named with similar hexadecimal codes."  
  
I look away from Scully and watch the keys swinging in the ignition instead. "Keep trying, we'll be there in a couple of hours."  
  
"Mulder?" Frohike asks quickly, before I can disconnect.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"It's not, I mean, well, it's not the cancer again, is it?"  
  
I sense Scully shifting closer, waiting for me to give her a clue. I close my eyes. "No." I hang up before he can ask another question.  
  
"Be where in a couple of hours?" Scully asks.  
  
"The boys hacked into the Lombard mainframe again."   
  
Scully's eyes widen; she's made the same connection I have. She reaches for her seatbelt instead of the door. There's no sense now in visiting the wrong Wright.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
After days of going nowhere, we might finally have a lead of some kind. It's hard to know whether to be relieved or terrified.  
  
"A big hit on Scully." That's what Frohike told Mulder. That doesn't bode well. A big hit only sounds good when you're talking about baseball.  
  
It was all I could do not to lose it in the office of the first Dr. Wright we visited today. Mulder was so determined that we would find answers that I couldn't let him know how difficult it was for me. There was a pregnant woman in the waiting room. I tried hard not to resent her - her belly rounded with life, her face glowing with the promise of the future.   
  
I'm well aware the odds are against this being a normal healthy baby. Why would they bother? What would they have to gain? Still, I hold onto hope, even though I understand that this baby is not mine, not really, no matter how much I want it to be. A child is growing inside me, a joyous occasion under any other circumstance. It is a dream I didn't know I had until I lost it. Once upon a time I believed in miracles. It is so hard to keep that faith now when the new life inside me is a fraud, one manufactured by a group of people who have absolutely no humanity. I struggle to stay detached, trying not love the child inside me or to think of it as mine.  
  
I will never again have a chance to carry a child, so I revel in each movement, each ripple, and try to remember it. I'm well aware that it is too soon for me to be able to feel such things - further terrifying proof that this may not be the child I long for. If this turns out to be nothing more than a sick experiment, at least I will have felt life growing inside me. I cannot hate them for that. I cannot hate them for returning to me, if only temporarily, the opportunity they took away. My emotions ebb and flow like the movement inside of me until, in the end, I do not know what to feel at all. My only constant is the tension of not knowing. It pounds away at me, exacerbated by the nausea and exhaustion.   
  
I lean back in the seat and my hand falls onto my belly reminding me once again, as if I needed it, of what it is I'm fighting for. This baby, this life. Is there any chance at all that this isn't some cruel game? They have taken me twice now, used my body twice. How can I believe there are any miracles left?  
  
Mulder struggles, too. I'm achingly aware of the way he watches me constantly, how he takes my arm on stairs and curbs so I don't trip, how he asks me a dozen times a day if I need anything. I am granted this rare glimpse of Mulder as a father, of his possessiveness over my pregnant self, of the way he already loves this baby, despite himself, even though it is not his, probably not even mine. He, too, tries to cope with the ambivalence - hating what they did, but loving the product of it. Hoping it will be worthy of love. Hoping we will get the chance to love it.  
  
***  
  
When we arrive at the Gunmen's, they greet us quietly, but Mulder is a  
whirlwind of energy and urgency. "Tell me what you found." He brushes right past Langly and Frohike to lean over Byers's shoulder for a better look at the computer screen.  
  
"Here's the information we pulled last night." Byers looks uneasy, his body hunching protectively over the keyboard. "This is a genetic profile of Scully from after she was abducted." He points at the screen. "And here's what we found at Lombard."  
  
Mulder shakes his head, making a helpless gesture with his hands. A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach reminds me that if we're talking genetics, the news is already more serious than I hoped.  
  
Byers continues, giving me a brief uncomfortable glance. "Remember the branched DNA we found after the abduction? It was latent then, because we assumed they'd finished their experiments." Byers gives me another sideways look. "But here, see, it's been reactivated."  
  
Mulder sighs and rubs his eyes. "So what does that mean?"  
  
"We don't know exactly," Langly cuts in, taking over the explanation. "When you were returned..." At least he directs his comments to me and doesn't act like I'm not in the room. "We figured it was just waste. We don't know why it's suddenly reactivated. But there's something else going on, here, with the P53 gene." He nudges Byers aside and strikes a few keys on the keyboard. A genetic map comes up on the monitor.  
  
"That bastard Scanlon was supposedly performing gene therapy on P53 when you had cancer. Here's a sample from when you were being treated." He gestures at the screen and then taps a couple of keys. "Here it is now. See how this area has regenerated itself? There's something major going on; we just don't know what."  
  
Mulder looks at me for the first time since we entered the room. I see my shattered hopes echoed in his eyes.  
  
Frohike steps up. "The other thing we noticed is here." Another couple of keystrokes, another graph comes up. "It's about what you might expect, given the reactivated DNA, and pretty much matches up with what we had after your abduction. Except this..." Frohike points to a spike on the left side of the graph. "Your estrogen and progesterone are markedly elevated; it's almost like, uh, never mind." Frohike trails off, flashing an apologetic look in my direction.  
  
"How does all this compare with the information you have from when Scully was abducted?" Mulder asks, changing the subject for me. I'm happy to let him ask the questions right now. I can't seem to piece all this together in my mind. It feels like I'm watching a discussion about somebody else, some hapless character from a bad science fiction movie.  
  
Langly presses a few more keys to bring up side-by-side windows. "Basically, you're way more screwed up now than when you were in the coma."  
  
Frohike pokes Langly in the ribs. "Sorry, Scully," Langly says with a sheepish grin.  
  
Byers steps toward me and I can't stand the look of sympathy on his face. "Are you going to tell us what's going on?"  
  
I look at Mulder and silently beg him not to tell. I don't think I could cope with anyone else knowing about this right now.  
  
He understands. "We don't know," he answers. "Scully was in the hospital a couple months ago with the flu. We think they did something to her."  
  
Frohike flexes his hands. "Oh, they did something, all right."  
  
Something inside me snaps, and suddenly I realize that sitting around listening to all this mumbo-jumbo isn't going to get us the answers we need.  
  
"We have to find Dr. Wright."  
  
The three Gunmen turn to look at me in surprise at my sudden participation in the conversation.  
  
"He's the key to this. Help me find him." All of a sudden my voice sounds desperate and pained. Byers looks at me sadly. Damn it all. I swallow the rising lump in my throat. I can't lose it, not here.  
  
Frohike taps a few keys. "Maybe this will help. Your file was forwarded to the Lombard Clinic from an office in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. Let me just check... Yes, there's a Dr. Jeffrey Wright on staff at the Bucks County Medical Center. He could be the one you're looking for, except he's an OB/GYN."  
  
I feel the blood rush out of my face and have to reach out for the table to keep from losing my balance. If there was any doubt about the circumstances of this pregnancy and when it occurred, they've just been put to rest. An OB/GYN treated me while I was in the hospital with the flu?  
  
Mulder sees my reaction and reaches out to help steady me. "Scully?"   
  
"I'm fine." I push his hand off my elbow and don't fail to see the hurt look on his face. "How long will it take to go through the rest of the records you downloaded from Lombard?"  
  
The Gunmen's attention is shifted from my sudden lightheadedness back to their computer. "A day, maybe," replies Frohike.  
  
"Get me a list of anyone else whose profile has changed in a way similar to mine. Then cross-reference them and see if any have been hospitalized recently."  
  
Frohike nods. "Of course. We'll get right on it. Do you want...?"  
  
I don't give him time to finish. "Call me when you get the list. We're going to Doylestown to find Dr. Wright."  
  
  
*****  
  
  
I have to hurry to catch up with Scully after she leaves the Gunmen's office. I manage to take hold of her arm just as she reaches the car. "We're not going anywhere tonight. I want you to go home and rest." She looks like she's about to argue with me, so I give her arm a gentle squeeze. "Please, Scully. Just rest. We'll start out first thing in the morning."  
  
She bows her head for a moment, considering, then pulls her arm free. "Fine. Take me home. We'll go early tomorrow."  
  
Neither of us speaks as I drive her home. Part of me is grateful that we have a direction to go in. The rest of me is frightened, deeply afraid for Scully and for the child she carries. Her silence tells me that she is feeling the same way.  
  
What would happen if I missed her exit? What if we just kept driving into the night - away from D.C., away from Doylestown, away from the FBI and from all the ties that keep us here? What if it were possible to take her somewhere they could never find us and let Scully start again?  
  
I turn off at her exit, knowing Scully would never choose the easy road if it meant deceit. Her head tilts back against the seat as she watches the outside world glide by. I wonder if she's considering not going home. Ask me, Scully, I think. Ask me.  
  
At her apartment, she gets out of the car with a short "Tomorrow" in my direction. I wait as she climbs the stairs and enters the building. A light comes on in her apartment and I watch her windows, tracking her progress from living room to bedroom.  
  
It definitely stands to reason that Dr. Wright has some connection with the Lombard Clinic. Why else would he be forwarding records to them? I don't believe for a moment that we'll find him in Doylestown tomorrow. I don't think Scully believes it either. There was no point in rushing there tonight. Dr. Wright is long gone. No doubt the key players all scattered when we requested her medical chart.  
  
Scully's curtains part and she waves me away. I return the wave and she disappears, the curtain falling back into place. I reach for my cell phone and dial.  
  
"Yo." It's Langly.  
  
"You said those records were forwarded to Lombard? Find out where else they were sent and then call me. I don't care what time it is."  
  
I hang up the phone and Scully's living room lights go out. After about ten minutes her bedroom light does, too. I pull away from the curb.  
  
As much as I'd like to believe that the child Scully carries is hers, that it will always be hers, I don't. I can't. Not when I wonder where it came from and why.  
  
This child is not a free miracle. No matter what the cost, I won't have Scully paying for it.  
  
*****  
  
End 2/8  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

TITLE: Ersatz Promises (3/8)  
AUTHORS: Susanne Barringer and Suzanne Schramm  
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net; sister_suze@yahoo.com  
Info and disclaimers in part 1.  
  
Missing chapters available at http://www.geocities.com/s_barringer/ersatz.html  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
CHAPTER 3  
  
  
I've been lying on my couch for hours in a dreamless stupor. I'm so exhausted I can't even fall asleep. My mind has chased itself in ever shrinking circles until all I can do is wonder if thinking about not thinking is really thinking. The phone rings, and I spring into action like one of Pavlov's dogs.  
  
"Yeah?" My voice sounds scratchy and far away, even to my own ears.  
  
"Get down here." Langly disconnects, leaving me with the dial tone.  
  
I don't move, instead staring numbly at the phone until a recording comes on asking me to please hang up and try my call again. If only it were that easy.  
  
I hang up the phone, and my apartment returns to silence. I close my eyes, wishing I had been able to sleep. I wonder if Scully's asleep. I hope that she is.  
  
Heaving a sigh, I stand up and grab my jacket, along with the overnight bag I packed earlier. For the briefest moment, my fingers linger on the door knob as I leave, knowing that the next person to come through this door will be Scully. I've ditched her many times, for many reasons, but I never imagined leaving her for this one.  
  
This time, I know she'll understand perfectly where I've gone and why. There's no need to leave a note because there's no explanation I can offer her.  
  
Yet.  
  
***  
  
People who think I'm an insomniac should hang out with the Lone Gunmen. On any given night, at least one of them is awake, vigilantly watching out for the interests of an American public who could not care less what their Commander-in-Chief is up to, so long as he doesn't raise their taxes. Apathy plays a large role in the Consortium's bid for power. At least that's what Frohike says.  
  
Tonight they're all awake, and an expectant hush falls over them after Byers ushers me in.  
  
"We checked the send path on those files. You were right, he didn't just forward them to the Lombard Clinic. They also went to HealthQuest, a research firm in Missouri. HealthQuest is a subsidiary of Transgen Pharmaceuticals."  
  
I suck in a breath at that name, and Byers gives me an apologetic shake of his head. "Dr. Calderon at Transgen, the man who treated Emily Sim, disappeared from the face of the earth in December 1997. He was replaced by this man, Dr. Kevin Wilder."  
  
A picture comes up on the computer's monitor. I look at his face and shake my head. He doesn't look familiar. In fact, he doesn't even look sinister.  
  
"You may not recognize him," Langly says. "But Scully would. Mulder, that's Dr. Scanlon."  
  
My blood runs cold as I stare at the face of the man who hastened the deaths of Penny Northern and the other Allentown abductees under the guise of helping them. Rage flares up in me, and I grip the edge of the table hard. "Is he still working there?"  
  
"He is." The glint off Frohike's glasses hides his eyes, but I hear my same anger in his voice. "He isn't scheduled for any vacation either."  
  
"Keep digging," I tell them as I leave. "Get those other names to Scully and tell her I'll be in touch."  
  
  
*****  
  
  
The phone rings at 6:15 a.m., not that it matters since sleep has been a rare commodity recently. There are too many things to think about, too many things I have to force myself not to think about. Most of all, there are too many nightmares I don't want to face.  
  
"Hello?" I try to sound alert, even though I know the raggedness of my voice reveals my exhaustion.  
  
"Agent Scully? I hope I didn't wake you but I figured you'd be getting an early start for Doylestown."  
  
"No, I was awake. What did you find?" I know Frohike wouldn't call me so early if there wasn't something important. I've quit hoping for good news, yet I don't seem to have the energy to brace myself for the bad.  
  
"We've gone through most of the database we pulled from Lombard. Langly's working on the rest right now, but I figured I'd update you on what we found."  
  
There's silence, so I suspect he's waiting to make sure I'm ready. "What?" I ask.  
  
"Well, we found eight other people in the Lombard records that have branched DNA similar to yours, all of them women. We've started digging to see what we can find on them, but I wanted to let you know that at least three of them live in Doylestown, and their records were all forwarded from the same clinic as yours."  
  
I pull a pen and notebook from the nightstand, a stash I started keeping shortly after Mulder and I became partners and I figured out that 2 a.m. calls were the norm, not the exception.  
  
Frohike gives me the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the three women from Doylestown. Now we'll have another direction to try while we're there. I have a feeling Dr. Wright isn't likely to be waiting around to talk to us.  
  
"There's something else you should know," Frohike adds when he's done with the list. He clears his throat before continuing. "Two of the other women? They live in, um," he hesitates and clears his throat again. I know the answer a split second before he says it. "Allentown."  
  
The constantly hovering nausea makes a leap for my throat. The name conjures up nightmares and panic, even after all this time. The pieces are falling into place, and every one of them shatters another little part of the promise I carry.  
  
I swallow hard to regain my composure. There isn't time for this. "Find out everything you can about the women, anything. We'll be on the road."  
  
"Wait, one more thing!" I hear Frohike's voice as I'm about to hang up.  
  
"What?" Really, I'm not sure I can handle one more thing.  
  
"It's about Mulder. He, um, he left a few hours ago to follow another lead."  
  
"Where did he go?"  
  
"Um, I'm not sure exactly. He found some information on a possible colleague of Dr. Wright."  
  
Frohike sounds apologetic and I wonder if he thinks I'm going to be angry. Normally, I probably would, but there are too many leads in too many different directions - Lombard, Doylestown, and now Allentown - and we're essentially on a deadline.  
  
"He said to tell you to go on to Doylestown and he'll call you as soon as he can. He didn't call because he wanted you to get some sleep."  
  
I'm sure that last part was Frohike editorializing rather than something Mulder said. He knew I would understand this time.  
  
"Thanks, Frohike. Call me the minute you find anything else."  
  
"Will do. Dana, is everything...?" The question dies. "We'll call you soon." Then he hangs up before I can decide whether I would have answered honestly or not.  
  
No, everything becomes less and less okay by the hour.  
  
***  
  
I lean against my car in the parking lot of the Bucks County Medical Center and look up at the thunderclouds racing in. Nothing. Mulder and I are a week into this investigation and we haven't found a goddammed thing. Jeffrey Wright wasn't here, hadn't been here in a couple of weeks, in fact. The receptionist could only tell me he took a sudden leave of absence and they hadn't heard from him, but if I needed an appointment, one of his associates would be happy to see me.  
  
I don't know what else I expected. Did I really think they would leave a nice neat trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow?  
  
I close my eyes and think back to when I was in the hospital, when this must have happened. I try to remember something, but the whole thing is a blur. I slept through most of it. Mulder insisted I go to the emergency room when he saw how ill I was getting, and I knew he was right. I was so sick I could barely function, not to mention totally terrified that the cancer was returning. When I got the news that it wasn't the cancer after all, Mulder had looked at me with a broad grin of relief. We thought everything was going to be okay.  
  
Instead, we've ended up smack in the middle of the worst of all possible nightmares. Did they make me sick in the first place, or did they simply take advantage of my hospital stay? Has Dr. Wright been experimenting on his own patients without their knowledge, or is he just a pawn in another game?  
  
I open my eyes and see a pregnant woman entering the clinic, her husband with her. Both of them are smiling and laughing. And then it dawns on me. I wouldn't have known.  
  
If I had a husband or a boyfriend, I wouldn't have known. The news that I was pregnant would have been a shock, sure, and despite initial confusion about how my fertility had been suddenly restored, I wouldn't have thought to look into it very deeply. My lover and I (and I naturally amend my hypothetical scenario to substitute Mulder into the equation) would have simply considered it a blessing, and the child would have been born with God only knows what kind of dangers  
hanging over its head.  
  
If I wasn't celibate, I wouldn't be standing here trying to figure out what the hell my baby is. I bet that's what they intended. They assumed I would never know, like that woman and her husband, like all the women to whom they may have done this. I'm not the only one. I'm just the only one who knows. That's why my chart and Wright and all the other leads have suddenly disappeared. Somebody screwed up.  
  
I reach into my pocket and pull out the list of names Frohike gave me. I dial the first number on the list and punch the send key.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hi. May I speak with Elizabeth Oliver, please?"  
  
There is an uncomfortable silence from the man at the other end. "Who's calling?"  
  
I think for a moment about what to say and decide to be straightforward, sort of. "My name is Dana Scully. I'm calling to find out if she's a patient of Dr. Jeffrey Wright and wondered if I might ask her a few questions."  
  
Another long silence, then a sigh. "My wife is dead," says the voice bluntly. "She died two months ago."  
  
I suddenly feel unsteady on my feet. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'm sorry." I hang up, too surprised to ask the questions I should.  
  
Dazed, I dial the name of the next name on the list. A woman answers.   
  
"Mrs. Kiernan?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
I'm relieved that I finally have someone to talk to. "My name is Dana Scully. I was calling to find out if you've ever been a patient of Dr. Jeffrey Wright?"  
  
There is a long silence like the last one, and my stomach sinks.  
  
"Oh, I'm afraid you have the wrong Mrs. Kiernan. You must mean my daughter-in-law, Leslie Kiernan?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry. I thought this was her number."  
  
"It is. Was." The woman's voice breaks. "I'm afraid she passed away a couple of weeks ago."  
  
"Did she have any children?" I blurt out. My head is pounding too loudly to think straight.  
  
Mrs. Kiernan pauses before giving a strained "No." Then, "Who did you say you were again?"  
  
I manage to apologize before I hang up on the elder Mrs. Kiernan. In desperation, I dial the third number, the last one who lives in Doylestown.  
  
There is no answer, and for some reason that makes me feel better. Maybe there is hope. Maybe there is someone left who can start answering at least a few of the million questions I have.  
  
I realize a couple of people in the parking lot are looking at me. I must appear insane, pacing back and forth while making one phone call after another. I unlock the car and climb in, then dial the Gunmen.  
  
"Frohike, what do you have on those women?"  
  
"Scully? Where are you?"  
  
"I'm at Wright's clinic."  
  
"Did you find him?" His tone of voice suggests he wasn't expecting me to find him either.  
  
"No. He's on a leave of absence, apparently."  
  
"How convenient." I hear a bit of anger underlying Frohike's words. As weird as the Gunmen can be sometimes, I know they care about me and are anxious to know what's going on. I don't have the strength to tell them. Somehow it seems easier to deal with all this if I don't have to put it into words. So far, I've only told Mulder. I doubt that will change, since it's looking more and more like a baby shower isn't in my future.  
  
"So, have you found anything on the women?" I ask again, to get us back to the subject at hand.  
  
"Yes, but I'm afraid it's bad news."  
  
"They're all dead." I say it, although deep down I'm hoping there's some other bad news that isn't so bad. Maybe I should have suspected it. What if these women are all abductees and went through the same things the MUFON women did, including Penny? Anger begins building inside me. I can't believe this is still going on, after all this time. I thought the men behind the whole thing had stopped, not relocated.  
  
"How did you know?" Frohike asks.  
  
"I called a couple of the women on the list you gave me. Have you found out what they died from?"  
  
"Well, we've pulled most of the death certificates, still working on the rest, but so far it's mostly eclampsia and stroke."  
  
"Eclampsia?" Oh my God, I was right. I'm not the only one. "They were pregnant? All of them?"  
  
"Yup, the ones we've found so far died before they carried to term, it looks like, because we haven't found any birth records. The most recent one, Marie Turner, died just last week. She lived in Doylestown; it's one of the addresses I gave you if you want to check it out."  
  
Last week? That's the closest thing to a lead I've had yet. Last week means there's still time to find out what happened. I look at the list of names and addresses; Turner was the last one I called where no one answered.  
  
"I'll call you later." I hang up before Frohike can add another devastating bit of information to the growing list.  
  
***  
  
I know there are professional implications in what I'm about to do, but I have to get some answers. I've avoided using my Bureau credentials up until now because I don't want anyone to know what's going on, not that they would believe it anyway. Skinner wasn't happy when I called him to request personal leave and then had to tell him Mulder would be out for a couple days as well. The last thing we need is word getting back to the Bureau that we're "investigating"  
something not on the books.  
  
I don't know how else to approach this, however, so I'm willing to put my career on the line to find out what the hell happened to me. I sit on the hard motel bed, and my hands tremble as I dial the phone. This time, a man answers on the first ring.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Mr. Turner?"  
  
"Yes?" His voice sounds concerned, almost as if he was waiting for someone to call.  
  
"My name is Special Agent Dana Scully, I'm with the F.B.I. I'm sorry to bother you, and I realize this is probably difficult, but I'd like to meet with you to talk about your wife's death." Nothing I say is technically a lie, only the sum of the parts.  
  
"What's this about?" he asks after a long pause.  
  
"I'm investigating some similarities between your wife's death and those of other patients of Dr. Jeffrey Wright. I'd just like to ask you a few questions, today if possible."  
  
I feel a twinge of guilt about pushing him, but I have to get as much information as I can. I don't know what other opportunities I'll have. Since Marie Turner is the most recent death, it's my best chance to get accurate information.  
  
There is another long silence, then a sigh. "Can you meet me at the hospital? I'm on my way there now."  
  
"That's fine. Where can I find you?"  
  
"Doylestown Hospital, sixth floor. I'll be in the NICU visiting my daughter."  
  
My stomach rolls over. Neonatal Intensive Care? The baby is alive?  
  
"I'll see you there," I manage to get out before the nausea rises up from my womb and hits me with force.  
  
  
*****  
  
End 3/8  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

TITLE: Ersatz Promises (4/8)  
AUTHORS: Susanne Barringer and Suzanne Schramm  
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net; sister_suze@yahoo.com  
Info and disclaimers in part 1.  
  
Missing chapters available at http://www.geocities.com/s_barringer/ersatz.html  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
CHAPTER 4  
  
  
I nearly called Scully several times before the flight left for St. Louis. I stopped myself each time because it was early and I didn't want to wake her. I knew the Gunmen would tell her I had left when they contacted her later. Mostly I just wanted to hear her voice. By the time I reached Columbia, Missouri, it was past eleven o'clock Washington time. I called, but got only her voice mail. With no news to give her, I hung up instead.  
  
Now, sitting in the parking lot of HealthQuest, the need to hear her voice returns. I dial her cell phone and get her voice mail again. My fingers drum on the wheel, hating this waiting game. Usually stake-outs are less tedious since I have Scully along to break up the boredom. I know I shouldn't worry about her. She can take care of herself. Hell, I wouldn't be alive if she wasn't around to take care of me, but I still feel cold dread in the pit of my stomach. Why isn't she answering her cell? She could be on a plane or in a hospital, but both of those possibilities present a terrifying  
picture. Is she hurt? Leaving in a hurry?  
  
I try her again, the fear gnawing at me when she doesn't answer.  
  
"Where are you, Scully?" I ask the steering wheel. I check my watch, it's nearly 7:30 p.m. There was a steady exit of people over two hours ago, but Scanlon/Wilder wasn't one of them. Perhaps I missed him. Maybe he didn't come in to work today. I bounce my leg for a minute or so before deciding it's time to check out the building. I could get lucky and the bastard is working late.  
  
The front entrance is still open. Far off down the cold marble corridor there is a janitor buffing the floor. A directory by the elevator tells me that Dr. Kevin Wilder has an office on the fourth floor. Inside the elevator, the button for the fourth floor won't light when I push it. In fact, none of the buttons work. There is a keyhole at the top of the panel and I realize that, minus a passkey, I'm not going anywhere.  
  
I try the door for the stairs. It, too, is locked. A keypad at the side of the door waits for a code from me. I give the door one more tug, just for good measure.  
  
"Hey!" The janitor has noticed me now. "The building is closed, you'll have to come back tomorrow."  
  
I nod at him and duck out the door.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
It isn't hard to find Mr. Turner. As soon as I turn the corner of the hospital corridor I see him, dressed in a green hospital gown and peering listlessly through the window at his child.  
  
"Mr. Turner?" He slowly turns to look at me, his face a blank.  
  
"I'm Agent Scully. We spoke on the phone." I reach out to shake his hand, but he doesn't seem to notice. His attention turns back toward the NICU.  
  
I step up next to him. "Which one is your daughter?" I ask, not sure I really want to know.  
  
He points straight ahead, his finger pushing against the glass. "That's Rebecca Leigh," he says softly. "The one in the center incubator."  
  
I follow the line of his finger to see the baby, the tiniest one in the room, hardly bigger than my hand. She is surrounded by wires and monitors, every function controlled by machines.  
  
"What's her prognosis?" I ask, fighting back the sudden wave of hopelessness that has enveloped me.  
  
He simply shakes his head in the negative, then presses his palm flat against the window. "I haven't even been able to hold her," he says, his voice trembling. "My wife was only 27 weeks along when she..." He clears his throat. "Rebecca's lungs aren't developed and she's got some blood defect they can't even explain. She's already had three transfusions, but it hasn't done any good. The doctors say it's a miracle she's lived this long. Some miracle, huh?" He shrugs his shoulders, strokes the glass with his fingers, then turns to face me. I have trouble meeting his eyes.  
  
"What did you want to see me about, Agent Scully?"  
  
"I wanted to ask you a few questions about your wife. I know this is difficult, but it's important that I find out exactly what happened. Is there somewhere we can go to talk?"  
  
He nods grimly. "I'd rather stay here, if it's all the same to you. I don't like to leave her." He leans his head toward the NICU.  
  
"Of course." He seems dazed, and I'm hoping that he won't think too much and wonder why the F.B.I. is investigating a medical matter. "Can you tell me what happened to your wife?"  
  
He looks at me with a flat expression again. "I woke up and she was having a seizure. I called an ambulance. She had a massive stroke on the way to the hospital, but they managed to keep her alive long enough to save the baby." His recitation is rote, as if he's told the story a hundred times already.  
  
"I'm sorry. Was she having any problems with her pregnancy, or had she had any seizures before?"  
  
"I answered all this at the E.R." He sighs with frustration.  
  
"I know, and I'm sorry. It would just be helpful to get the story straight from you."  
  
He gives me a pained look before continuing. "I had a feeling something was wrong with the pregnancy. She was so tired and so sick all the time. It didn't seem normal. She kept trying to reassure me it was just morning sickness, but it didn't seem right. She'd never had any seizures or anything, though, before that night."  
  
He steps away from me and goes to sit on a bench at the end of the corridor. I follow and sit next to him.  
  
"Mr. Turner, this might sound strange, but was your wife ever abducted?" I suddenly wish desperately that Mulder was here to handle this part of the questioning. It's hardly my area of expertise. Just how does one ask such a thing, anyway?  
  
His head snaps up to look at me. "Abducted?"  
  
I can't bring myself to follow up in Mulder fashion, so I go my own route. "Was there ever a period of time when she disappeared, or she couldn't remember a big chunk of time?"  
  
He looks at me like I'm crazy and now I know how Mulder feels. Then he surprises me. "How did you know that?"  
  
"Like I said, I'm looking into some similar cases..."  
  
"How did you know that?" He jumps to his feet and I see the panic rising. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?"  
  
I rise to try and calm him. "Like I said, I'm with the F.B.I." I reach into my jacket pocket to pull out my badge. "It's okay. There are others like her."  
  
His eyes are wide. "What do you mean, others like her?"  
  
"Other women who have been taken, who can't explain where they were for days or months. I'm trying to find out the connection."  
  
He shakes his head in disbelief. "She never told anyone. It took her years to even tell me about it. It was before I met her, when she was nineteen. She said she was kidnapped, but she didn't remember any of it. All she knows is that she was gone for two months, and when she came back she felt different." He looks past me at the blank walls of the corridor. "She used to do a lot of reading about UFOs and alien abductions. I think that's what she thought happened, but she would never admit it." His tears come then, flowing steadily over his cheeks.  
  
I reach out and touch his arm. "I'm sorry to bring it up, but I do think there's some kind of connection between that and your wife's death, and maybe her pregnancy."  
  
"She was artificially inseminated," he says, as if that explains everything.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"We tried for four years to get pregnant and couldn't, so she was artificially inseminated."  
  
The wall in front of me blurs, and I close my eyes to keep from getting dizzy. "Dr. Wright performed the procedure?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
*****  
  
  
I'm about to give up as the phone rings for the sixth time, but Scully picks up.  
  
"Scully." Her voice is clear, even from this far away.  
  
"Hey Scully, it's me. Where are you?"  
  
"Doylestown, Mulder. Where are you?" Her voice loses some of its clarity, becoming strained. I close my eyes, feeling a flash of unease. Is something wrong?  
  
"Columbia, Missouri."  
  
There is a moment of silence and then she clears her throat. "For how long?"  
  
"I'm not sure. The Gunmen found where your records were sent; now I'm working on a way to get inside."  
  
Silence again. Cold sweat starts at the base of my neck.  
  
"Scully? What did you find in Doylestown?"  
  
"They were all pregnant, Mulder. All the other names in that directory? They've all died from complications of pregnancy."  
  
God, God, God. I take a couple of deep breaths, feeling the floor sway beneath me. "How?" I sit on the edge of the bed. "How far along were they?"  
  
"Six or seven months." Her voice fades, and then she seems to reassert herself. "One of them delivered a premature girl - she's on a ventilator and she has a rare blood group incompatibility that isn't responding to treatment. They've transfused her several times, but..." Her voice trails off and I wince.  
  
"I talked with her husband," she starts again. "I asked him if his wife had ever reported missing time or talked about being an abductee."  
  
I sit up straighter, both proud and amazed that Scully would go that far out on a limb.  
  
"She had, Mulder. Marie Turner wasn't a member of MUFON, but the other six women all were. All of them were treated for infertility at the Doylestown Clinic by Dr. Wright."  
  
I look at the threadbare carpet on the motel room floor. "Are you staying on in Doylestown?"  
  
"For now." She sounds far away again.  
  
I nod, even though I know she can't see me. "I don't know how long I'm going to be here. Hopefully only another day or so. Do you want me to meet up with you there, Scully?"  
  
"Call me first, just in case."  
  
"Hey, Scully?" I'm holding the phone so tightly my fingers are starting to ache. "If you need anything, call me first, okay?"  
  
"Okay." It's barely above a whisper, but I think maybe she smiles.  
  
  
*****  
  
End 4/8  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

TITLE: Ersatz Promises (5/8)  
AUTHORS: Susanne Barringer and Suzanne Schramm  
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net; sister_suze@yahoo.com  
Info and disclaimers in part 1.  
  
Missing chapters available at http://www.geocities.com/s_barringer/ersatz.html  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
CHAPTER 5  
  
  
I struggle to come to consciousness as I hear the phone ringing. My sleep is deep, so deep even the fuzzy nausea and my pounding head don't keep me awake. These days, I either can't sleep at all, or I can't wake up.  
  
The trilling continues. Thinking it's Mulder, whose voice I desperately want to hear, I grope for my cell phone in the gray dawn.  
  
"Mulder?" I immediately curl up into a ball to fight the churning nausea that rises from my abdomen. My body feels heavy and immovable. I need help. I need Mulder.  
  
There is a silence at the other end, then a quiet "Agent Scully?"  
  
I don't recognize the voice, and the thick haze suddenly surrounding my head isn't helping.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"This is Jacob Turner. We talked yesterday?" I fight through the dizziness that threatens to overwhelm me, finally getting my bearings and remembering I'm in Doylestown. This is more than morning sickness. This feels like death.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Turner. Is everything okay?" I sit up and put my head between my knees to keep from passing out, my grip tight on the phone as if it's a lifeline. I already know, whether instinctively or by the tone of his voice, what he's called to tell me.  
  
"Rebecca, my daughter, died last night." His voice is suddenly clear and strong, as if he's steeled himself. The latest wave of nausea finally passes, and I am able to sit up. I lean against the headboard for support. This infant's death was expected. I saw her chart yesterday - it was only a matter of time. I had told him to call me when it happened, hoping maybe I could talk him into letting me perform an autopsy.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Turner." I'm not sure what else to say. The man has lost everything.  
  
"Something's going on, Agent Scully." He clears his throat loudly before continuing. "I went to sign the forms to release her to the funeral home, but someone had forged my signature."  
  
Suddenly, I understand. "She's gone?" My heart is racing, pushing away the last bit of fuzziness in my mind. I should have stayed at the hospital. I should have known they'd come for the evidence.  
  
"Yes. She was released to the Carter-McKnight Funeral Home in Philadelphia. I don't understand how this could happen. How could this happen?" His voice is calm, despite the anguish he must be feeling.  
  
How could any of it happen? How could I be sitting here, carrying a child I don't know anything about, talking to a man who has had his child taken by people he has never even met. There is nothing explainable about this.  
  
I tell Mr. Turner to call the police and that I will meet him at the hospital in an hour.  
  
It takes less than ten minutes to confirm my suspicions. The Carter-McKnight Funeral Home doesn't exist. Not in Philadelphia. Not anywhere.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Unable to sleep, I get an early start, arriving at HealthQuest's parking lot just before 6:00 a.m. I'm still blowing on my coffee when Kevin Scanlon himself comes out of the building and gets into a car. I sit up fast, scalding myself in the process.  
  
He drives out of Columbia, heading into an expensive residential area. I have to hang back further and further. I nearly miss it when he makes a left turn. I make the same turn in time to see a large iron gate closing. I park the car, walking along an imposing brick wall, too high for me to see over and with no convenient footholds to pull myself up. I peer through the gate, but the driveway disappears into some trees and I can't even tell what kind of house is inside.  
  
I follow the wall until it joins up with the fence from another lot. This one is a little lower, and I'm able to climb it to breach Scanlon's. I land in a corner covered with creeping myrtle. I creep with it, able now to see what kind of house destroying lives can buy you. If Scanlon is living here alone, it's the worst kind of extravagance.  
  
That thick wall around the outside must have him lulled into a false sense of security - the patio door is unlocked. Inside, the house is surprisingly spare. The walls are bare. Only a couple of rooms are furnished, and even that is minimal, but expensive-looking. Maybe he moves so often it isn't worth decorating. There are a table and two chairs in the dining room. The floors are tile or wood, and I'm forced to walk slowly and lightly, not wanting to advertise my presence.   
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
I whirl around, startled that someone could come up behind me undetected. It's Scanlon. His face, which was angry, turns pale. This man, whom I've never met, recognizes me. He's right to be afraid.  
  
I skip the formalities and pull my gun on him. "Tell me what you did to her."  
  
"Did to who?" He looks behind me nervously, as if he expects I didn't come alone. "Who are you?"  
  
"Dana Katherine Scully. You might know her better as 2317-616."  
  
He shakes his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. If you're here for money, take anything you want. You can have my watch, it's a Rolex. Just please don't hurt me."  
  
"I don't want your goddamned money. I want answers. I want to know why, you son of a bitch."  
  
Scanlon raises his hands, still shaking his head. "I don't know what you're talking about!"  
  
"Bullshit!" I come up close on him, shoving him backwards. "You have about ten seconds to come clean with me." I push the gun against the center of his chest and he stays pinned to the wall.  
  
"Come clean about what?" His gaze darts frantically around the room, and I wonder if there's someone else in the house. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"Two," I count, raising the gun to point directly between his eyes. "Three." A bead of sweat starts at his hairline and he blinks.  
  
"Four. Five."  
  
His eyes close and he takes a deep breath.  
  
"Six. Seven. Eight."  
  
I slide the safety off, the sound louder than normal here in early morning suburbia.  
  
"Wait," he mutters.  
  
"Nine."  
  
"Agent Mulder. Wait." His eyes open.  
  
"Funny, I don't remember telling you my name."  
  
He shakes his head. "That's who you are, aren't you? I've heard about you."  
  
"Then you know I'm not exactly stable."  
  
Scanlon frowns. Yeah, he's heard that, too. "Take your gun off me."  
  
"No deal." I push him back when he tries to take a step away from the wall. "First you tell me what I want to know."  
  
He keeps his eyes down as if his explanations have dropped to floor. "Your partner is part of a very small group of women. You know about the Allentown donors?"  
  
"My partner is the only one from that small group still alive." I press the gun against his cheek and his skin turns even paler at the point of contact.  
  
"Please, Agent Mulder, let me explain. Please?"  
  
"I'm listening."  
  
"The women, the other donors, there were others besides the Allentown group. We've been questioning, well, wondering, how they would react to a pregnancy."  
  
"So this is her baby?"  
  
"No." Scanlon flinches; maybe he anticipates my urge to hit him.  
  
"Then whose is it?"  
  
"We," Scanlon hesitates. "We've done this project in stages. The first phase involved cloning human subjects, using alien DNA and their own for hybridization."  
  
My God. Samantha. Samantha and Kurt. Phase one.  
  
"Go on," I tell him, my heart squeezing tight in my chest.  
  
"In phase two we began experimenting, using the DNA of the hybrids with that collected from women, such as your partner. Emily Sim was a result of those studies. She, and all the other children created, failed to thrive."  
  
Failed to thrive. I can feel the tic in my jaw start. Scully had asked "Who would create a life whose only hope is to die?" I'm looking at him now, Scully.  
  
"So we began looking into ways to slow the growth of the hybrids created in the first phase. They mature too rapidly, going from infant to adult in a matter of just a few years. By grafting in some of the DNA from the donors, we believe we have corrected this problem. But we needed test subjects. Unlike the clones which are grown in tanks until they reach maturation, these children could be created in the lab but had to be gestated in the normal fashion. We've been taking the eggs from women who come to our clinics for in-vitro fertilization and combining them with the hybrids, then implanting the fetus in the normal way." Scanlon pauses and licks his lips.  
  
"Keep going."  
  
"We ran into problems right away; in most cases the mother's body would reject the fetus. This happens 75 percent of the time in a normal in-vitro procedure, but the curve was slightly higher with our project, close to a 90 percent rejection rate. We experimented with many different 'fixes' before coming to realize that if the mother was given a dose of the serum in which we grow the hybrids the rate dropped to only 50 percent."  
  
"Is Scully being given the serum?"  
  
"No," Scanlon shakes his head. "All the abductee subjects already carry the antibody contained in the serum, just in a dormant fashion. It seemed more feasible to use them, rather than having a non-abductee mother come in every few weeks for 'treatment.' The first two test subjects were doing well at twenty weeks, so we continued with the others, including your partner."  
  
"I'm sensing a 'but' here."  
  
Scanlon sighs and tries to move away from the wall. I push him back. "But what?"  
  
"Complications arose around twenty-four weeks. As near as we can tell, there is some kind of chemical change that occurs in the both the fetus and the mother."  
  
"And?"  
  
"A baby, at its most basic, is a parasite in the mother's body. In the body of an abductee, the baby begins to lay siege to the mother's cardiovascular system, in essence grafting itself to her. If her body has not rejected the baby by now, it will turn on her when her immune system is exhausted."  
  
"She will die?" I can't believe this. How will I ever tell Scully? "Why can't you give her the serum now, won't that reverse it?"  
  
"No, we've already tried that. The serum is meant to nourish the baby, not the mother. In a mother so depleted the serum only accelerates the process."  
  
"Son of a bitch!" The rage I've kept in check during his explanation boils to the surface and I shove him to the wall again, this time holding him there by his throat. I want to kill him, to make him feel one-tenth of the pain and anguish that Scully will. "How could you do this to her?"  
  
Scanlon gasps and wheezes, his hands pulling at mine. His face starts to turn purple and I release him, pushing him to the side so that he stumbles and hits the floor.  
  
"I saw her name on the list of donors." Scanlon coughs, his shoulders shaking. "I heard how attached she was to Emily, how much the child meant to her. I was trying to make amends. I was trying to give her back the chance to be a mother."  
  
"So she's carrying a hybrid, a Kurt that's going to kill her if she carries the baby to term, assuming her body doesn't reject it before then?" I pull him off of the floor and he weaves as he tries to stand in front of me.  
  
"No. She was so attached to Emily, I gave her a girl." Scanlon rises unsteadily, bracing himself against the wall with one hand.  
  
A girl. Another Emily. Even though I know Scully can't carry this baby to term, part of me wants to buy her something pink.  
  
"Emily," I murmur.  
  
"No." Scanlon shakes his head sadly. "A Samantha."  
  
  
*****  
  
End 5/8  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

TITLE: Ersatz Promises (6/8)  
AUTHORS: Susanne Barringer and Suzanne Schramm  
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net; sister_suze@yahoo.com  
Info and disclaimers in part 1.  
  
Missing chapters available at http://www.geocities.com/s_barringer/ersatz.html  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
CHAPTER 6  
  
  
I'm less than halfway back to D.C. and feel like if I close my eyes, I could sleep for a year. I should pull the car over, but I'm anxious to get home. The exhaustion is one of totality; every limb of my body aches for rest. I need to be back in my own apartment, my own bed.  
  
I fled Doylestown as soon as it became apparent that the investigation into the theft of Rebecca Turner's body was going nowhere. Mr. Turner was distraught, the cops had no leads, and it was all I could do to keep down the dry toast I'd had for breakfast. As I expected, the people who'd taken her body left no fingerprints, no evidence, no nothing. They came and took her just like they took Emily, denying Mr. Turner the chance to bury his own child. It is as if she never existed, except in the memory of her poor father who will probably never comprehend the real crime that has been committed.  
  
Meanwhile, I must wonder what will happen to me and this child I'm carrying. Is it destined to have never existed? I won't allow that to happen. I want to talk to Mulder, but I alternate between dread about what he's found and anticipation that he will have better news than I do. I know there should be no hope left. Logically, I know the questions that matter most have already been answered. Still, I refuse to let go entirely until that is the only choice I have left.  
  
It is time to do what I do best. I need the evidence of test results and medical facts. Despite all I've seen, the love I try not to feel for this child overwhelms what I have witnessed. In some ways, this is the hardest thing I've ever been asked to believe. I have to go toward what I can trust. Science.  
  
I've been avoiding the thought of tests. After all, there's no way I could go to an OB/GYN and simply request an amniocentesis. God only knows how I'd explain whatever they find. I have to run the tests myself, starting with a full blood workup and a DNA profile. There's only one place I can go for help.  
  
***  
  
It takes forever for all the locks to slide back. When the door finally opens, it is Byers who greets me.  
  
"Agent Scully?" He sounds surprised. "It's Agent Scully!" he turns to yell inside. Within a few seconds, both Langly and Frohike emerge from their lair. The three of them stand there looking at me like I've got some sort of horn growing out of my head. They're paranoid as hell and they're hiding something.  
  
"Well, are you going to invite me in, or do we have to have this conversation out here where anyone could be watching?" Furtive eyes shift past me and scan furiously. The three of them practically trip over each other in their hurry to get out of my way.  
  
Before I've stepped over the threshold, I've already decided that this isn't the time for polite conversation. I cut to the chase. "Look, I need your help, and I need you to be discrete, no matter what I ask. No questions. Can you do that?"  
  
"Sure, whatever you want," says Langly while he uncomfortably shifts from foot to foot. It's amazing these men can keep a secret about anything. Maybe they've heard from Mulder. I haven't been able to get in touch with him since I found out about Rebecca's death. His cell phone has been out of service. Over the years, I've conditioned myself not to worry about that, but this time I can't help myself. This "case" is sinister, and it's personal.  
  
"Agent Scully, you should sit down." Frohike suddenly steps forward to pull up a chair for me, then grabs my elbow as I move toward it, helping me to sit. The sudden gentlemanliness confuses me. With a swoop of his arm, he sends a pile of newspapers flying off a wooden crate, which he then pulls in front of me. "Here, put your feet up."  
  
"Can we get you a glass of water?" Byers asks, looking at me with what could only be construed as sympathy.  
  
"Or milk?" chimes in Frohike.  
  
Oh God, they know. No wonder they've been acting weirder than usual. The three of them stand in front of me, scrutinizing me carefully as if I'm about to give birth right here and now. I have no doubt that if I did, it would end up the lead story in their next issue.  
  
"Yes, a glass of milk would be nice," I say, flashing my best smile at Frohike, who swallows hard with my overture. I want to get Byers alone. He's definitely the weak cog in this machinery of paranoid secrets, and it looks like he's sweating bullets at the moment.  
  
"And a pillow? For my back?" I direct toward Langly. For a bunch of paranoiacs, they sure are easily manipulated. Langly and Frohike run off to do my bidding, leaving me, as I'd hoped, with Byers, who is fiddling with his tie.  
  
I jump up, getting right in his face. "Okay, Byers. Spill it. What's going on? What have you heard from Mulder? You understand that I deserve to know what's going on, right? There's a lot at stake here, more than just me and Mulder." I wave down in the direction of my belly. Byers follows my hand, stares at me a moment, takes a deep breath, then gives me the party line.  
  
"I don't know." I can see the struggle on his face.   
  
"Byers!"  
  
He breaks easy. "We found a link between Dr. Wright and Dr. Scanlon. Mulder went after Scanlon."  
  
"What?" The name feels like a slap across the face, the tamped-down nausea getting the best of me once again. Scanlon? The one who killed Penny Northern? He's in on this?  
  
As the news sinks in, Frohike returns. He bears a large glass of milk balanced on a clipboard. "Byers! What the hell are you doing? She needs to be sitting." Frohike sets down the makeshift tray and comes over to me, gently taking my arm and guiding me to the chair again. Langly arrives with the requested pillow, gingerly placing it behind me as I begin to sit.  
  
"Agent Scully? Are you okay?" Frohike looks panicked. "Sit down. You don't look so good. Byers, what the hell did you do to her?" He slaps Byers on the arm.  
  
By the time I've hit the chair again, the shock has worn off and the anger is setting in. "Can I get you a cold washcloth or something?" Frohike's face looms before me, the concern etched across his features. "Do you need a doctor?"  
  
I feel like I'm going to vomit, which I'm pretty sure would send poor Frohike into a fit of panic. I swallow down the rising disgust. I can't believe it's Scanlon.  
  
Time to take action. "Frohike, cut the crap. Where's Mulder? What has he found?"  
  
Frohike picks up a newspaper from the floor and begins fanning me. "We don't know where he is exactly. I'm sure he'll call you as soon as he can."  
  
I reach out and stop Frohike's fanning because it's making me feel seasick. "What has he told you?"  
  
"Nothing," the three of them chime together.  
  
"We found out where Scanlon disappeared to," Byers adds without prompting, and the other two glare at him. "Mulder went after him, but we haven't heard from him since he left."  
  
I nod and take a deep breath to try to calm the thoughts racing through my head. So much for the optimism I'd felt about what Mulder might find. His news will be no better than my own, perhaps worse. If Scanlon is involved, there can't be much left to hope for.  
  
I take a moment to pull together my thoughts, while the Gunmen watch me carefully for signs of impending childbirth.  
  
"Okay, I need your help," I finally say, and they simultaneously look relieved. "I need a lab or a doctor who will run some blood tests confidentially, with the results released only to you or to me. Can you help me with that?"  
  
Frohike nods furiously while Langly speaks. "Uh, yeah, we can probably pull that together. Not until morning, though."  
  
"That's fine." I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to get a good night's sleep.  
  
***  
  
When I arrive home, my answering machine light is blinking loudly in the darkness, echoing the pounding in my head. I can barely find the energy to kick off my shoes and remove my coat before I hit play.  
  
"Scully, it's me. I, uh, I was hoping you'd be back by now... I'm just checking in. I'll, uh, I'll try and call again later."  
  
There's a pause and I can hear his breathing on the other end. "Hey, Scully?" His voice falls off into silence. He sounds as exhausted and drained as I am. "Take care of yourself, okay?"  
  
The electronic voice tells me I missed Mulder's call by fifteen minutes. I'm too tired to wonder about his words, too tired to worry. I just want to sleep.  
  
I stumble to the bedroom and fall into bed without changing my clothes. The throbbing in my head is so painful, it beats against my closed eyelids. I try to concentrate instead on the rippling in my womb and wonder how much longer I will get to feel this life inside of me.  
  
I'm startled by the phone ringing, and I flinch in pain at the sudden noise. I snatch up the receiver immediately, though I know it won't be Mulder.  
  
It's Langly. "Agent Scully? I think we've gotten your ... request taken care of. We have a friend who's a doctor. Well, he's not technically a doctor anymore." I make a mental note to never ask what the hell he did to lose his license. "Anyway, he works in a lab here in D.C. He can run some tests for you on the side. We've worked with him before. He's entirely trustworthy."  
  
The pounding between my temples subsides a little. At last, something I can analyze and dissect. "Great, when?"  
  
"Well, if you can meet us here tomorrow, we can make the arrangements. Afternoon sometime?"  
  
"No, in the morning," I reply. "I can't wait any longer."  
  
That is the one thing of which I've suddenly become sure. I can't wait any longer. I need to know what this thing is, and I need to know now. If it's going to kill me, I at least want to know what it is. And if there's anything I can do to save it.  
  
  
*****  
  
End 6/8  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

TITLE: Ersatz Promises (7/8)  
AUTHORS: Susanne Barringer and Suzanne Schramm  
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net; sister_suze@yahoo.com  
Info and disclaimers in part 1.  
  
Missing chapters available at http://www.geocities.com/s_barringer/ersatz.html  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
CHAPTER 7  
  
  
"A Samantha."  
  
The words don't register at first. I blink and take a couple of steps back while I try to understand what just happened. Scanlon shrugs, spreading his hands in a "what's a guy to do?" gesture.  
  
Then comprehension sinks in and my whole body feels ice cold. My arm has become too heavy to keep the gun trained on him, and it drops to my side. I shake my head in disbelief, unwilling to accept anything this man might say as the truth. He's just trying to rattle you, I tell myself.  
  
Scanlon sags against the wall, apparently as drained as I am by our little tete-a-tete. The gun drops from my numb fingers, clattering loudly on the bare wooden floor. For a split second, our eyes meet.   
  
Scanlon dives for the gun. The movement sets the rage building inside me into motion. I tackle him, finding a small measure of satisfaction in the grunt he makes when he hits the floor. The gun slips from his grasp, spinning crazily out of reach.  
  
We struggle, grappling and straining across the cold surface of the floor. Scanlon is slightly taller and heavier than I am, but he isn't nearly as motivated. His elbow delivers a sharp blow beneath my chin, leaving my ears ringing and the taste of blood in my mouth. I reciprocate with a solid punch across his left cheek that makes my knuckles scream.  
  
We both lunge for the gun, but it slides out of reach again. I squirm away from Scanlon, stretching until the gun just brushes the tip of my fingers. I flex my fingers, willing the gun closer.  
  
Scanlon flips me, but doesn't break my grip on the gun. I shove it under his chin and he tries to move backwards, but doesn't get far because I've got a handful of his shirtfront.  
  
"You're going to help her." I wobble to my feet, pulling him with me. "I don't care how, or what you have to do, but you're going to fix this."  
  
Scanlon shakes his head. "I already told you, there's nothing we can do."  
  
"Try again!" I chuck him under the chin with the gun. "If you can't fix it, then you're of no use to me. Do you know what I mean?"  
  
That's no idle threat. I've never meant anything more in my life. Scanlon's eyes turn into glittering little marbles when he realizes this.  
  
"Maybe," he licks his lip and tries to turn his head away from the gun. "Maybe there's something else we can try."  
  
***  
  
We get a few second glances in Healthquest's lobby, but no one asks why we look bruised and rumpled. The fourth floor is deserted, and I remember that his was the only name on the marquee for this floor.   
  
Scanlon stops in front of a door and punches a code into the keypad on the wall. The door opens to an dark and empty laboratory. "A few years ago there were nearly a hundred people working in this lab." He shakes his head sadly, as if its current disuse is the greater crime.  
  
He flips a switch and the overhead lights blink and hum to life. Our footsteps echo eerily as we walk through the deserted lab. Scanlon stops in front of a cabinet and pulls a key ring from his pocket. He sorts through the keys, trying a couple of them before finding the right one.   
  
Inside the cabinet are several narrow metal boxes. Scanlon takes one from the top shelf and opens it, extracting a clear vial filled with greenish fluid. He hands the vial to me.  
  
"What's this?" I ask.  
  
"The vaccine that was developed in anticipation of the alien invasion."  
  
"How will this save Scully and the baby?"  
  
Scanlon looks disconcerted. "You can't save them both."  
  
I hold the vial up to the light, discerning nothing miraculous. "This will save Scully?"  
  
Scanlon doesn't answer, of course. This isn't a cure - it's speculation. But it's the only chance Scully has left.  
  
***  
  
Back at my hotel room, I take the vial out and set it carefully on the nightstand. The fluid inside is the same eerie green color of Emily's salvation and ultimate demise. Scully rejected the ability to prolong Emily's life, but I wonder if she would change her mind now, after having carried the child within her.  
  
How could they do this? The collected grief of over twenty years has become too heavy a burden tonight. The vial turns hazy, replicating itself like so many Samanthas through the filter of my tears. I think of my sister, abducted and used as a lab rat. Was that truly her last year, pleading with me to stay out of her life? Or was she a clone, too? Is Sam even still alive? Or does she survive only as a tissue sample to provide DNA?   
  
What about the vacuous and mute Samanthas that I found in Canada? Are they still tending bees somewhere? Or have they outlived their usefulness? A sob catches in my throat as I remember how desperately I wanted to bring one home for my mother. Even with the knowledge that she should have been an adult, not still a child, I wanted to believe that it was Sam. I wanted to be able to start over. I wanted to make up for all the lost years.  
  
Hot tears slide over my cheeks as I breathe in anguished gulps. Now there is another generation of Sams, and there doesn't seem to be a damn thing I can do to save them either. In fact, by this time tomorrow I will have given Scully the means to destroy one of them. I will plead with Scully to do it.  
  
The irony of my quest is heartbreaking. I've sought my sister, finding her again and again in various forms. With the possible exception of the Sam the Cigarette Smoking Bastard dangled in front of me, none of them were really her. They were just carbon copies that were missing the soul of the original.  
  
Tonight I would trade my soul to change it all. If only my father had given them me, instead of Sam. None of this would have happened to her.   
  
None of this would have happened to Scully.   
  
That thought is enough to destroy me. I lie on the bed, whispering Scully's name while my heart breaks at the decision that must be made.   
  
/"You can't save them both."/  
  
***  
  
"What happened to you?" Scully takes my hand, turning it over for a closer look at my bruised knuckles.  
  
"Let's just say I have a propensity for finding bastards." I slip my fingers from hers and touch her cheek, tilting her face up. The circles beneath her eyes are darker than before. Worry lines are etched into the corners of her mouth and extend from her eyes - how long have those been there? "How are you doing?"  
  
Her eyes close, her head resting heavily against my palm for a moment. "Tired."  
  
That she would admit it frightens me even more than her physical appearance.  
  
"I have nothing, Mulder. Dead ends, dead mothers, dead babies. I hope you found something."  
  
I take the vial from my pocket and hold it up between us. Scully's eyes widen slightly and then look back at me, questioning. I gesture to the sofa and we both sit down. I set the vaccine down on the coffee table and take her hand, giving her fingers a small squeeze.  
  
We both stare at the vial, innocent looking, yet carrying the weight of tragic finality. How do I tell her? What do I tell her? Those questions have haunted me since last night. I still have no answer, no good starting point. I take a deep breath and begin.  
  
"I found Dr. Scanlon, Scully."  
  
She winces. I'm not sure if it's from the memory of the time she spent embracing death in Allentown or fear of what I'm about to say that pains her. Maybe both.  
  
"They were running a fertility clinic in Doylestown. They were experimenting with the hybrids."  
  
"It's not mine," she murmurs, still watching the vial blithely resting on her coffee table.  
  
"No," I can barely choke out the word. I can't look at her, or the vaccine, so I close my eyes and wish this part were over, that this god-awful moment in our lives had passed.   
  
"It's killing you, Scully. This baby, this hybrid, she's half alien."  
  
Scully crosses her arms, hiding her abdomen from the truth for just a few moments more. I keep going, powerless to stop now that I've started.  
  
"They chose you because they believed that abductees might have a better chance of carrying a hybrid fetus. It turns out that the opposite was true. Scanlon admitted that non-abductees have been used with success. But the fetuses depleted the abductee mothers."  
  
Scully bites her lip, her mind already understanding the conclusion I can't bring myself to tell her. "This pregnancy is doing the same thing to me that it did to those women in Doylestown."  
  
I nod, not trusting my voice. Scully leans forward, closer to the vial, her lips pressed together in a thin line.  
  
"And this?" She almost picks it up, but at the last second she draws her hand back.  
  
"It's a variant of the vaccine I gave you in Antarctica. Since a hybrid is half-alien, it should be lethal to..." My voice trails off, unable to say the words out loud.  
  
"And that's it? I just inject this? What makes you believe that Scanlon is telling the truth?"  
  
She's right, why should we trust Scanlon? What if he's trying to get rid of all the evidence, Scully included? I shake my head slowly. There's no way I can honestly answer that.  
  
"You said 'she.'" Her features are pinched with grief. I know she's thinking of Emily, of opportunities lost forever.  
  
"It seemed wrong to say 'it,'" I lie. I can't tell her the truth. "The baby in Doylestown was a girl. I just started thinking of this one as a girl, too."  
  
Scully picks up the vial, tilting it a little as if to discern its secrets. "If the Turner's baby had been born later, if her lungs had developed just a little more, she might still be alive."  
  
"You don't know that."  
  
"No. But I don't know that it's already too late to save this baby."  
  
I wince and reach out to touch her knee, wanting a connection with her so that she understands just how important this is to me. "You have to save yourself."   
  
"Why?"  
  
That single word shreds what is left of my soul. Why do this, Scully? Because I need you. Because I can't lose you. Because I will never be able to find the men responsible for this without you.  
  
"So you can save the others," I rasp out past the fear rising inside me. "It's not just you, there are others out there. But you and I, we know now. We can stop them from doing this to others."  
  
Scully sets the vial down and clasps her hands in her lap.  
  
"I can't do this alone. I need you, Scully. If you die because of this..." The enormity of her decision and her sense of justice frighten me. What if she decides that thirty-some-odd years are enough for her and that she cannot cheat this child of a slim chance at life?  
  
She bows her head. "I need some time here, Mulder."  
  
My stomach twists into a knot. I stand up, wishing desperately that I could take this moment away from her. I wish that this had never happened, that I could fly around the world like Superman and turn back time for her to the day she walked in my office and started down a dark and dangerous path. Instead, I walk away.  
  
I glance behind me before I shut the door. She is still sitting on the couch, her shoulders hunched over as if they hold the weight of the world.  
  
  
*****  
  
End 7/8  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
REMINDER: This story is set during the 6th season. "Closure" has not happened. And for some of us, it never will. ;)  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8 - Final

TITLE: Ersatz Promises (8/8)  
AUTHORS: Susanne Barringer and Suzanne Schramm  
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net; sister_suze@yahoo.com  
Info and disclaimers in part 1.  
  
Missing chapters available at http://www.geocities.com/s_barringer/ersatz.html  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
CHAPTER 8  
  
  
I lean hard against the heavy weight of the oak door, and it opens under my push. Stepping out of the cold and into the warm alcove, I shake off the snow that has fallen onto my shoulders and hair. I enter the sanctuary and stop just inside the door, allowing myself to absorb the magnificence. Although I have been inside this church many times over the years, it looks different to me at night. The stained-glass windows are lit from the inside only, and the candlelight throws shadows across the high vaulted ceiling. I always find churches peaceful, but at night that peacefulness takes on a new intensity as the darkness is shut outside and the light is welcomed within.  
  
I am alone in the sanctuary except for a woman sitting in a pew near the front. By the hunched curve of her back, I suspect she is an older woman, though it is impossible to tell with the scarf she wears over her head. I'm not sure if she is deep in thought or deep in sleep, but I decide to choose a pew on the opposite side so that I do not disturb her.   
  
Once seated, I close my eyes for a moment to allow all the feelings to settle over me. Although I have felt on the verge of tears for the last few weeks, I have not cried since I told Mulder the news. I wait now, thinking the tears will come in this haven from the outside world, but they do not. I cannot seem to find the release I need.  
  
I open my eyes and study my surroundings, feeling the constant pounding that has been haunting me all evening begin to wane. The vial Mulder gave me waits in my pocket, beckoning me with harsh reality inside this sanctuary.   
  
I think back to Mulder tonight, as he had to break the news to me. It was nearly unbearable to put him in the position of bringing this choice to me. I could see in his eyes how much he didn't want to tell me, how much he didn't want to make me decide between myself and the child.   
  
I try to weigh the options objectively. Even if I can live long enough to carry this baby close to term, which seems unlikely given the early deaths of the other women, could it survive a premature birth? And if it did, what about the blood abnormality I saw in the Turner baby? Would there be medical abnormalities following it through childhood and maybe even into adulthood?  
  
Then, even if there weren't the medical concerns, what kind of life will the child have? Surely the men who created it will come back to claim their prize. Will Mulder be able to protect it? Can I ask him to give up everything to save a child that isn't even technically mine?   
  
Should the child be born, only to be seized and used as a medical experiment? Like Emily? Or Gibson? Gibson's words come back to haunt me. "I'm a very special lab rat."  
  
There's one thing I haven't told Mulder, one thing that weighs on my conscience. The initial blood test results that I got back from the Gunmen's doctor friend - they were not at all what I expected. They were almost normal. I tried not to allow that to raise my hopes. The other tests, the ones that will paint a more accurate picture of what is going on in my body, will take time. But when I saw those blood results, for one brief moment, my heart soared. Could it be possible? Could the condition be reversing itself?  
  
Maybe with more time I could figure it out. I could find a treatment for the blood abnormality, I could find a way to protect the child. It's a fatal deadline - at most I have only a few months left - and then Mulder is left to shoulder the burden.  
  
This child sucks up my own life, yet it has in many ways renewed my life. Carrying it, feeling it move, loving it. In some ways it is the most joy I have ever felt, the most alive I have ever been. I'm not sure I can give that up, even at the price of my life.   
  
The thought brings the tears kicking at the back of my throat again, but they still refuse to fall. I sigh heavily and then reach forward to pull out a Bible from the rack in front of me. I hold the book on my lap, just staring at the words embossed in gold on the front cover. Holy Bible. I long for the days when my faith was stronger than my doubt, when this book could bring me comfort for almost anything I had to face. Now, I'm not sure where I can find the strength. As much as I may wish for it, I cannot find it here. I'm not sure it's even possible for me to find it at all. Where do I look when what I'm experiencing goes beyond the realm of science and beyond the extremes of faith? There is nothing in either of those places, science or religion, that can explain this, that can help me understand what is happening.   
  
What kind of suffering awaits this child, half human, half something I can neither know nor understand? Am I to make the decision to save the child by killing it? The paradox is a bitter one, the benefits of life and death reversed, confused, indistinguishable from each other. There is no way to know what is right.  
  
I am, however, not alone in this decision. For better or worse, Mulder has a stake in it too. He sat beside me, trying to help me weigh the options, although I am well aware that he supports only the one, the one that will guarantee my own life and, at the same time, make inevitable the death of my child which he, also, has come to love. "You have to save yourself," he told me, his hand tracing light circles on my leg as if trying to draw a picture for me of what is necessary.  
  
Why? It is a question I have been asking myself for weeks now, months, years in fact. Why? Why me?  
  
Although I feel calmed from my sojourn in the church, my blood not racing, my emotions under control for the moment, I don't feel any more sure of my decision than I did when I entered. Sleepiness is blurring my mind, and I know I should go home and try to get some rest. I replace the still unopened Bible in the rack and stand to leave. As I walk down the pew, I notice that the old woman has also gotten up and is walking up the aisle toward me. We reach the end of my pew at the same moment.   
  
"When are you due?" she asks, her voice sounding as old as she looks. Surprised, I look her in the face. Her eyes, set deep within her chiseled face, are dark in color but bright with life, despite her age.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your baby. When is she due?" Confused, I look down at my stomach, then back up at her. I'm not showing yet. How could she know?   
  
Not sure what to say, and flustered by the whole exchange, I answer with the first thing that pops into my head. "I'm not sure."   
  
The woman nods slightly, then reaches out a hand. I notice her fingers are cramped with arthritis, contracted into grotesque shapes. She stops just short of my belly. "May I?" she asks, not breaking my gaze. I nod, oddly unsure if I have a choice in the matter.  
  
She presses her hand flat against my stomach, closing her eyes at the same time. It is only a matter of seconds before I see her brow crease and a sharp grimace pass over her face. Shocked by the change in her visage, I step back and the contact between us is lost.  
  
She opens her eyes again and I see sorrow reflected in them, the previous brightness dimmed by a shadowy gloom. "Sometimes, we have to find the strength to let them go," she says in a tone that is remarkably soothing. I can do nothing but stare at her. "Sometimes, that is the best way to love them."  
  
And then she is gone, halfway up the aisle before I have even taken a breath. While I'm trying to unravel the intent of her words, she reaches the door of the church and exits into the cold. She leaves me standing in the middle of the church alone, tears streaming down my face in the first flood of relief I have felt in what seems like forever.  
  
***  
  
As I walk home from the church, the snow falls faster. The old woman's words sink into me, calming the ceaseless flurries of my thoughts. The world outside me is a mass of whiteness and gray shadow, lit by a full moon which cannot reach the darkness lingering in the corners. My decision lurks in my mind the same way, just a murky shadow wrapped in a blanket of numb ice and darkness. All the snowy words of the past few weeks gather in tall drifts pressed against my soul. I finger the vial in my pocket, its green color an aberration in this gray world. A single splash of vibrant color, like the future in an otherwise miserable present. The decision made, I walk with purpose, the wind and cold at last destroying all lingering doubt.  
  
  
  
X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X   
  
  
  
*EPILOGUE*  
  
  
I roll down the window to let in some fresh air. The monotony of the highway is making me drowsy. Scully doesn't stir. I look over to check on her again. Her head is angled awkwardly against the passenger-side window, but I don't want to risk waking her by trying to right it. She's only been asleep for a couple of hours, probably the longest sustained sleep she's had in days.   
  
We shouldn't be here. It's only been three weeks since the "procedure" - neither of us has ever used one of the other, more accurate, terms for what happened - and she's still weak.   
  
I glance at her again, reassuring myself that she's still with me. I had thought that she would call me when she had made her decision. I had thought that she wouldn't want to be alone.  
  
I was wrong.  
  
I waited by the phone for her to call. All that night and into the next morning I waited. She never called.   
  
By mid-morning I was growing worried, so I tried her phone. No answer. I had watched her the night before, distantly witnessing her late night sojourn to the church and back. Once she was safely home, I went to my apartment and started waiting. The fact that she wasn't answering shouldn't have been alarming; she might have gone to the church again. Or to the store. Or anywhere.   
  
I knew, though. I knew what I would find inside her apartment. I pictured it all the way over. Scully, in a pool of blood, barely hanging on to life. What I found was almost as devastating.   
  
She didn't answer when I knocked, didn't call out when I said her name. Her apartment was neat, and just as I had left it the night before. I went down the hallway to her room and pushed the half-closed door open. The bed had been stripped, all its blankets were in a heap on the floor. In the center of her mattress there was a dark stain. It wasn't very large, but my heart stopped anyway.  
  
"Scully?"  
  
Turning towards her bathroom, I saw a bedsheet trailed across the floor. Inside the door, curled up in front of the toilet, was Scully. A stained sheet covered her. Towels, some of them soiled, were strewn all over the floor. The tub was filled with silent pink water.  
  
"Scully?"   
  
Her skin felt cold when I touched her. I crouched next to her, uncertain whether I should move her or not.  
  
"Mulder?" Her eyes half-opened, then closed again when they found me. "I let her go. I had to."   
  
I pulled her into my arms, cradling her there awkwardly. "You should have called me."  
  
And now, three weeks later, she's still reliving that night. She doesn't talk about it, and I'm not sure if she's reticent because it's her personal pain or because she's trying to spare me. She tries to hide it from me, but I see the grief etched around the corners of her eyes. What she has lost she can never get back, and there are no promises I can make to even begin to compensate.   
  
She has become too thin, too pale, too gaunt. I worry that she might not ever fully recover physically from what's been done to her. Still, there wasn't a thing I could do to stop her from coming on this trip. As soon as the Gunmen called to report that they'd found an unusually high number of deaths of pregnant women from a clinic in Wyoming, Scully packed her bags and insisted we go look into it.   
  
"This is what you said you needed me for," she argued when I told her it could wait. I didn't have an answer for that. I know that she needs this, something to put her back up against, something to do to make sure it wasn't all in vain. We know they are out there, other women carrying other Samanthas - ersatz promises that should never have been made.   
  
I traded Scanlon his freedom for Scully's cure, and it has cost me, though I would pay that price again a thousand times over. The lab where he took me was stripped of all evidence that it was ever used for anything other than pharmaceutical experiments. What Scanlon told me, however, hints that this was bigger than Scully, that it was bigger than the women in Doylestown and Allentown.   
  
Now we have a lead again - just the smallest of leads, but maybe a beginning.  
  
  
*****  
  
THE END  
  
  
**********  
  
  
EP Stats:  
  
Idea proposed by Susanne: e-mail dated January 12, 1999, 23:16  
Original posting deadline set for EP: Before 1999 spring mytharc  
Next posting deadline: Before 6th season finale  
Next posting deadline: Before 7th season premiere  
Next posting deadline: Before 7th season finale  
Thoughts when Scully announced pregnancy in 7th season finale: SHIT!  
Next posting deadline: Before 8th season premiere  
Absolute, final, must get our butts in gear deadline: Before 8th season finale  
Last line finally agreed upon: May 16, 2001, 23:23  
  
Time elapsed: 2 years, 5 months, 4 days and 7 minutes  
  
Why did it take so long?  
  
Bedtime stories read to Sue's son: 251  
Bedtime stories read to Susanne's niece: 24  
Required road trips for Sue's job: 33  
Term papers graded by Susanne: 3000  
Number of times Sue moved: 2  
Hours spent fixing Sue's new house: 284  
Hours spent working on Susanne's dissertation: 73  
Vacations taken by Sue: 8  
Vacations taken by Susanne: 7  
Vacations taken by Sue & Susanne together where they brought EP to work on it: 3  
Total vacation time spent working on EP: 15 minutes (generous estimate)  
Stories posted 1/99 - 5/1 by Sue: 13  
Stories posted 1/99 - 5/1 by Susanne: 25  
Hours spent discussing EP on IM: 763 (approximately)  
Average interval when we'd say "we should really work on EP": Once a week  
Average interval when we'd actually work on EP: Once a month  
Number of words in EP: 17,652  
Average amount of time spent on each word: 23 hours (approximately)  
  
Hey, we have lives! When you look at it this way, a word a day isn't too bad. :)  
  
  
Please direct any comments on our inherent laziness to:  
sbarringer@usa.net; sister_suze@yahoo.com  
  
  
  



End file.
